


wake me up (there's a light up ahead)

by mayerwien



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Gen, Rebuilding Erebor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lying there in the snow, Thorin Oakenshield knows there are things he still has to do. So as he plunges into death, he fights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wake me up (there's a light up ahead)

_"Death came for the dwarf and tried to take him, whereupon the warrior squared his shoulders, dug his heels against the granite floor, and told him to go. Death turned around and left.”_

-       _Apologue from the southern provinces of Sangpür_  

* * *

 

Thorin Oakenshield always expected to die in battle. If there is anything he does not fear, it is death—as long as it is gained with honor. Lying there in the snow, feeling the life slowly draining from him, he knows his is not.

So as he plunges into darkness, he fights.

It is like being far out at sea, and having to struggle against the tides to swim back to shore. But instead of water, it is air he has to swim through, and utter blackness, and lack of sound. And the soft hands of the dead, tangling in his hair, wrapping around his wrists, coaxing him back to them. All of him reaches forward and still forward for something he is not even sure is there, endlessly until the point of breaking—

And then instead of falling into light, as he furiously hoped he would, Thorin finds himself standing on the smooth black floor of an immense hall whose ceiling is too far away to see, in a silence so heavy it feels like a robe over his shoulders. At the end of the hall there is a throne, and on the throne is…

“Why do you resist me, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror?” The voice is unlike anything Thorin has ever heard before—deep and high and full of great power and great gentleness all at the same time. The tall figure stands and moves towards him, tilting its head. The silvery robe it wears sweeps the floor, and Thorin stares at the hem for a moment; it is as if embroidered into it are all the stars in the sky.

“Your father and grandfather await your entrance.” The figure gestures behind him, to a tall door Thorin had not noticed before. It is made of stone, and into it are carved words which he cannot read. “Do you not wish to see them?”

“I do,” Thorin rasps, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears, and so terribly small that the ringing silence seems to eat it up. “But not yet. I have not lived a life worthy of your halls, my lord Mahal, and I would return to life so that I might make it so.”

Mahal smiles at him, showing perfect white teeth in a smooth face. Strangely, the smile is warm and a little shy—something one might expect to see on the face of an old friend, rather than on that of the Maker himself. “What if I told you that you  _are_ worthy? You reclaimed the Lonely Mountain when no other dwarf could. You led an army into battle to defend the home of your people. Even now, your name passes into legend.”

“No. I would not call that enough.” Bowing his head, Thorin clenches his fists. “I succumbed to jealousy and greed, and brought ruin upon innocent people. I must make amends.”

“Hmmm. And what if I said that is not for you to decide? After all, your soul was forged in my fires,” Mahal says. His eyes are kind, but still they smoke like embers. “With my own two hands I gave you  _life,_  Thorin Oakenshield.”

“But you did not shape its course,” Thorin says firmly. “And as long as I stand here before you I can say this. If my lord will not hear my request, then I challenge him to a fight. And if I win, he shall give me what I ask of him.”

“Ah.” Mahal sighs. “I should have expected nothing less. You dwarves are very stubborn.”

“You created us to be,” Thorin answers with a wry smile.

A chuckle. “Very well, I accept. But not swords, I think. Your Goblin-cleaver is far from your hand in this place.” Mahal raises his hand, and in it appears a great hammer, made of an iron that shines like the clearest night.

Thorin feels the sudden weight of something in his own right hand, feels his fingers fit into familiar worn grooves in a handle. But it is not a weapon; he would know it anywhere. He looks down. It is  _his_ hammer, from back when he was a young dwarf in exile, working as a humble blacksmith in the towns of men. At once he remembers all the knives, horseshoes, coat-hooks, and door-hinges he made with it—it was cheap work, but honest, and tinged with bitterness as well. The hammer is not a weapon—but it is an extension of him, in a way that nothing else is.

Leaning forward with his two fists curled around his hammer, Thorin keeps his weight close to the ground and his eyes fixed on Mahal’s. Inexplicably, he feels the need to shout something.

But not  _‘For Erebor.’_  Too many battles have been fought for Erebor already.

“For your life,” Mahal says. He shifts easily into battle position, eyes glinting.

“For the Company!” Thorin roars, and launches himself forward into space.

The  _clang_ the hammers make as they meet rings out sharply in the quiet of the hall. Thorin cries out when Mahal, in one swift movement, forces him to his knees. Holding his hammer like a staff with one hand at either end, Thorin pushes back, giving himself just enough time to stand before Mahal surges forward again.

Thorin blocks this next blow as well, but it is more difficult this time. Mahal is much taller than him, and stronger. He cranes over him like a mother over the cradle, and Thorin can feel the immense power bearing down on him.

“I must confess you impress me,” Mahal says lightly, twirling his hammer in his fingers as though it were made of paper. “You fight like the king you were born to be.”

Ducking, Thorin barely avoids Mahal’s hammer smashing into the side of his head. He cannot keep defending himself this way. Fumbling, he drops his weapon, swears, and has to scramble to retrieve it.

What is it about this hammer? From the moment he held it in his hand, Thorin has felt as though there is something about it he has forgotten, something important on the very edge of his mind, threatening to slip into the abyss.

In his wild confusion, he casts his mind back to when he was still a young blacksmith, and it is as if the scenes run again before his eyes. His own little coal forge, which served him well for years. The cobbled streets he walked, the market stalls and pubs he frequented. And the fights he often got into on his way back to the inn at night, fights with men puffed up by drink who thought they could rob him of his hard-earned coin because  _he’s only a dwarf, lads, we can take him easy_.

Oh, yes, Thorin remembers now.

He was not a king when he wielded this hammer. He was just an ordinary dwarf in a world of men. And to deal with men, you cannot fight like a king. You have to fight  _dirty._

So the next time Mahal moves to strike him, instead of resisting, Thorin drops.

Mahal staggers forward as Thorin rolls to the side and sweeps his hammer across the floor, towards his opponent’s feet. Mahal leaps away in time, but he is unbalanced now, and that gives Thorin the opportunity to roll forward and attempt the sweep again.

Mahal makes to swing his hammer down, as if to drive a tent peg into the ground, but Thorin, who is now lying flat on his back, kicks at his wrists. The mighty hammer hits the floor with a  _clank,_  and that is all Thorin needs. Springing up, he drives his head into Mahal’s stomach. The Maker stumbles back, and falls at last.

For a long time, there is nothing but the silence, pressing in around them.

“There is a seat in my halls waiting for you, Thorin Oakenshield,” pronounces Mahal finally. He sits up. Then, slowly, he grins. “But it shall not be filled today. No, nor any day soon. You have won your prize.”

Thorin bows his head, still breathing hard. He can scarcely believe it. “I—I thank you, my lord Mahal.”

Mahal holds out a pale hand. “Now, won’t you come and help an old smith to his feet?”

Hesitantly, Thorin reaches down to clasp Mahal’s hand. He has barely grazed the Maker’s fingers before the world is turned upside down and he finds himself sailing through the air, landing on the floor twenty feet away with all the breath knocked out of him.

“Much better,” Thorin hears the voice say. Groaning, he opens his eyes to see Mahal getting up unaided, chortling and dusting off the back of his robe.

“You could have won that fight in a second,” Thorin mutters, wincing and feeling incredibly foolish as he gets to his feet as well. “Then why—“

“Perhaps I was in need of amusement.” Mahal shrugs, and once again Thorin sees that strange combination of grace and shyness in his gaze. “Or perhaps I, too, wanted to have the honor of meeting the great Thorin Oakenshield in combat.”

Thorin is not at all sure how to process this, so he decides to tuck the thought away for later. Then he cries, feeling guilty for not having remembered, “My sister’s sons—“

“Worry not. They have gone ahead of you—“ Mahal stops when he sees the shock on Thorin’s face. “Back into the world of the living,” he finishes, and Thorin relaxes.

“My lord, would you please tell my father and my grandfather that—“ Thorin falters and trails off. Because what can he say?

“I do not need to tell them anything. They watch you always.” Mahal smiles again, and his face is like the sun. “You have done well. Return to your Company, little one,” he says, and it has been so long since anyone has called Thorin  _little one_ that he nearly weeps. “Return to your kingdom. I return you…to life.”

And with that, Mahal swings his hammer back and strikes Thorin once, in the center of his chest, and the silence surges in on him as he falls back in an explosion of heat and light.

And then all at once, it is no longer quiet.

Purposeful footsteps. Low chatter. The occasional clatter and muffled swearword, as something falls to the floor. A soft bed beneath him, and warmth upon his face.

Slowly, Thorin opens his eyes, and sees a billowing shape above him, which at first he thinks is a cloud. It takes a while to realize that it is the ceiling of a tent, through which the sun is shining. And that he is aching all over, and that he has an itch on his knee that he is too wrapped up in blankets to be able to scratch.

He has come back. He is  _alive._

And he does not even have time to revel in that fact alone, because at once someone is clasping his hand and grasping his shoulder tightly. A familiar round head swims into view, and a pair of dark, watery eyes. “You’re awake at last.”

“Dwalin,” he croaks, squeezing his friend’s hand back with what strength he can find.

“Mahal’s beard, Thorin, we feared the worst. It’s been  _days.”_ Dwalin shakes him a little.

“Days? It felt more like centuries to me.” Thorin pauses. “And would you believe me if I told you Mahal doesn’t have a beard?”

“You must be delirious, Thorin.” Raising his head, Dwalin bellows over his shoulder, “Hi! He’s woken up!” It is not two seconds before another familiar figure bursts in through the tent flap—tousle-headed, small and stout.

“Thorin!” Bilbo Baggins blurts out, and throws himself down beside Thorin’s bed. His eyes are tired, but he is dressed in a clean white tunic, and where the collar opens Thorin is touched to see that the hobbit still wears the mithril shirt.

“It seems I’ve learned a trick or two from you, Master Burglar,” Thorin croaks, a grin beginning to form on his lips despite his weariness. He can make a joke now. It is all right. “I have stolen a second chance at life.”

“You’re an idiot,” retorts Bilbo, tears forming in his eyes, but he is smiling. Thorin reaches out and lays his hand on top of Bilbo’s head.

Then he remembers, and gasps desperately, “Fíli and Kíli—“

“Live, as you do,” finishes a voice from beyond the tent flap. Thorin raises his eyes to see Gandalf ducking in to join them. The wizard removes his hat, eyes twinkling merrily. “They were moved to a separate tent when their constant bickering and arguing with the elf nurses began disturbing the other patients.” All of them laugh, even Thorin, feeling his ribs ache, and the relief and love settle deep in his bones.

There is a brief silence, during which Thorin begins to turn many things over in his mind. “There is much I have to do,” he croaks finally. He feels his eyelids growing heavy again, but he must say this. It is important. “There is a kingdom to rebuild, debts to pay…promises to keep.”

“There will be time for all of that soon enough. For now, you must rest, Thorin,” says Gandalf gently, settling into a chair and putting his pipe to his lips. He blows out a fat white ring of smoke, which drifts lazily across Thorin’s vision. It is the last thing he sees before he falls asleep once more. “And have a hearty breakfast when you wake up, I shouldn’t wonder. The elves make the most wonderful raspberry jam.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay aaargh I promised myself I was going to write this series without editing, but this idea was killing me so I deleted the old chapter and rewrote it the way I wanted.
> 
> That said, hello! This is part of a series of oneshots wherein Thorin and his nephews survive the Battle of the Five Armies, and everyone stays to help rebuild Erebor and Dale. I hope you come along for the ride! :)
> 
> (Source of chapter title: "Light Up Ahead" by Further Seems Forever)


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